Jinn and Juice (9 page)

“That’s all great, but what’s the significance of a bridge that crosses a park?”

“It may just cross a park for humans, but not for supernaturals. Bridges have their own magic,” I explained. “And don’t ask why. I have no idea. I guess magic likes a metaphor. But oftentimes bridges serve as a conduit to Sideways—the place your ancestors might have called Faerie.”

“So Sideways is an actual place?”

“It can be, yes. If you go all the way Sideways, you’re basically in a world parallel to our own, that only magicals can find—purely supernatural creatures or humans with magic, like you. That’s where the majority of pure supernatural creatures live nowadays, because humans and their steel are everywhere. Supernaturals don’t like steel. So yes, Sideways is a place.

“But Sideways is also… I dunno how to explain it. The route, as well as the place. So you move Sideways to get Sideways, and you can have pockets of Sideways. Big pockets, like where Purgatory’s located, or little pockets that you can use like they’re actual pockets—little magical closets where you store stuff. I keep my swords Sideways, for example.”

“This makes no sense,” Oz said. “You realize that, right?”

I grimaced, remembering my own steep learning curve when I’d been cursed to live as a jinni. “No, it doesn’t. But I already warned you: magic has its own rules. You’ll learn.”

“So can anyone go all the way Sideways, like to a parallel world?” he asked.

“Yes, but only with the help of a Bridge,” I said. “Something pure and powerful, like a sidhe Lord or a really powerful jinni, can propel themselves directly Sideways. But something with that much power is rare. And they don’t usually enter the human plane at all; they prefer to stay Sideways permanently.”

“And bridges always lead Sideways?”

“Not always, but often.”

Ozan shook his head as if trying to clear it. “There’s so much to learn.”

I jumped over a big puddle, landing lithely on the other side. Oz tried to follow my lead, but landed short, his big booted feet splashing my gray skinny jeans with mud. I gave him a dirty look and he winced.

“Sorry,” he said.

I flicked something globular and gross off of my thigh. “It is a lot,” I said. “But you’ll absorb it all. You’re part of this world now, whether you like it or not.”

Oz fell silent for a moment and only then did I notice how quiet everything had gotten. Too quiet.

“Maybe when we’re done here,” he continued, “we can sit down and talk. I could buy you dinner. You can tell me more about all this. I don’t understand how your power’s different, for example…”

I lifted my hand to shush him.

“Something’s wrong. Stay here…”

“Huh?” he said, ignoring me and keeping to my heels.

“Quiet,” I said. I crouched down and he followed suit. Lifting my nose, I breathed deeply.

“No birds calling. And no fires,” I explained in a whisper. “Trolls always keep a fire burning…”

“Stay here,” I repeated, creeping forward. I knew it was useless, however. Sure enough, Ozan stuck to me like a burr.

We were getting close to one of the concrete struts holding up the Bridge, but everything was wrong. No smell of fire, or roasting meat. Not even a whiff of troll droppings or the musky scent of their border markings.

And no deep rumble from Sid, an old friend. There was no sneaking up on a troll in his own territory, and I’d been expecting a greeting for the last few minutes.

We crept all the way up to the concrete strut, but still there was no sign of my friend or his brothers.

“Something was here,” Oz whispered, pointing at the old oil drums standing at odd intervals, their interiors darkened from fire.

Sid’s tribal marks were also still there, graffitied in spray paint on the concrete of the Bridge and carved into the few trees that grew in this boggy patch of the park. But there was no sign of the trolls who had made them.

“Maybe they left?” Oz said.

I shook my head. “Trolls are territorial. Sid’s family has been in this park since before it was America. There’s no way they just up and left.”

Oz inspected one of the markings, a complicated tribal rune that declared this property as troll territory. “Well, if they’re not here and they wouldn’t leave…”

“Either something made them go, or they’re dead.”

“Could they have just died out?”

I shook my head. “I was here a few weeks ago, with Bertha. Everything was fine. Whatever happened was recent.”

“Well,” he said, using a Very Reasonable Voice. “What could move or kill a troll?”

I frowned. “Not a lot. They’re pretty tough. It would have to be something pretty badass…”

“Lyla,” Oz said sharply. “Over there.”

I looked to where he was pointing, feeling my face break out into a wide smile.

“Well, that takes care of that.” The head of the bugbear was sitting on top of a little mound, one of its mandibles torn off and its antennae in disarray. Considering there was no body attached to the head, I felt confident we could report back to Loretta that the bugbear was dead.

“Yeah, but what killed it?” Oz asked.

That wiped the smile off my face. I looked around, the hair on my arms prickling.

“Maybe Sid?” I said, doubt making my voice lilt into a question. Trolls were tough, but bugbears were too. And there was still no sign of Sid.

“Sid!” I shouted, not wanting to walk any farther into that wide, empty field until I could see my friend. “Sid!”

The ground beneath my feet rumbled ominously, shutting me up.

“What the…,” Oz began, but I cut him off with a sharp look.

The earth rumbled again, definitely shifting under my feet. From the way Oz swayed, he was getting the same treatment. But I noticed the trees around us didn’t move at all.

“Oz,” I whispered, reaching out to him with my left hand. “You need to take my hand. But don’t move otherwise.”

For once, undoubtedly seeing my expression, he had no
questions. He reached for me silently, and I grasped his fingers tight in mine. At the same time, I reached into my very own pocket of Sideways, calling to me the Turkish saber I kept there for just such emergencies.

Also for sexy dances, as I was that sort of girl.

Appearing as it did out of thin air, the deadly curve of my beloved kilij made Ozan gasp.

“Don’t move,” I repeated, but he already had—just the slight shift of his weight away from me.

The rumble beneath our feet increased, causing us both to shuffle to keep our footing.

“Fodden!” I shouted, as the first skeletal black-clawed hand broached the surface of the dirt, slashing at our legs.

T
he hand that had grabbed hold of my ankle was already flying through the air, cut off neatly at the wrist. More hands were quickly clawing their way out of the earth, however, reaching for Oz and me.

I swept a strong arc with my armed right hand, pulling Oz closer to me with my left. He let me take the lead, since I had the sword, stumbling toward me on the still-shifting ground.

Jerking him hard, I pulled us both backward when the earth crumbled ominously under his boot to reveal a gaping, many-toothed maw. The teeth closed on nothing, but I nearly fell as Ozan’s weight crashed into me.

I felt a hand grab my calf and then another wrap around my foot. I swept low and hard with the kilij, its razor-sharp edge cutting off both offending limbs, then a third that was groping up Ozan’s leg.

“What the hell?” he shouted, over the din of shifting earth and the noisy squawk of the mouths appearing in the dirt around us.

“Fodden!” I repeated, kicking one hand away from his shin as I cut off another, jerking us back another step or two as I
felt the telltale shifting of the ground underneath my feet. A gaping maw appeared where we’d been standing a few seconds earlier, snapping on empty air. It opened again and a long black tongue snaked out of its depths, reaching toward us.

“Rude!” I shouted at it, slicing off the tongue and a few more grasping claws for good measure. I inhaled sharply as one long-limbed hand got past my sword, scoring my ribs with a merciless slash that cut to the bone.

Ozan came to my rescue then, grabbing my sword from me and chopping the offending fodden arm off at the elbow, before it could get in another strike. I nodded my thanks, letting go of my bleeding side to reach Sideways for my other sword, thankful that the finale of the belly dance act I used them for required me to have two.

More hands were popping out of the ground all around us. This wasn’t just a rogue fodden crossed over from the Other Realm by accident; this was an infestation. Keeping Ozan’s free hand tight in my grip, I slashed at the hands reaching for us, shuffling us around to stay out of the way of the incredible appearing mouths, as I pulled, hard, on Pittsburgh’s raw magic.

“Hold on!” I shouted, even as I sighted up the path, away from the sodden terrain near the Bridge and the fodden who’d made it their home. Focusing on a patch of dry land, I took a deep breath, cutting away the hands that had managed to wrap themselves around my nether regions and Oz’s. As I exhaled I pulled again on the steel-stained power pulsing through the ground at my feet and I reached…

My magic found root in the dry patch just as the ground shifted at my feet, beginning to crumble as the mouth of the fodden underneath us opened. But before we toppled into its gaping maw, we were hurtling through the air as if on an
invisible reel, pulled from where we stood to the patch of dry ground where I’d embedded my magic. Ozan cried out as I jerked him behind me, clutching tighter to my hand as I pulled us out of harm’s way.

We came to a sudden, painful halt at the very spot I’d sighted on, Ozan crashing into me from behind, sending us both flying. I landed hard on the ground, the nasty wound in my side sliding painfully through the mud and dirt, opening it still further. But knowing the fodden would quickly feel our reverberating landing, I woozily climbed to my feet a split second later, looking around for Oz. He, too, was already standing, rubbing his shoulder with a pained expression. I’d probably jerked it nearly out of its socket when I’d pulled him behind me, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Come on!” I yelled, grabbing for him. I noticed there was a fodden arm still clenched around a handful of his jeans, stringy ligaments hanging from where it had been ripped off when I reached. I plucked it off of him before we raced up the hill toward my car. I loved my hideous old El Camino, but I’d never been happier to see the ugly bulk of its steel chassis.

I hurled open its long door, pushing Ozan in and through to the passenger side, sliding in not a second too soon behind him. Hundreds of hands of various sizes popped up around the car, reaching for the El Camino but jerking away, smoking, when they came in contact with its steel. I turned the key, throwing us into reverse to pivot around, peeling out onto the paved asphalt of the main road. There I idled just long enough to see the hands waving in the breeze, like the worst flowers ever created, before eventually pulling back down into the ground.

Only then did I pull out of Frick Park and onto the main road, pain starting to seep through my system as my adrenaline faded, letting my hurts make themselves known.

“You’re bleeding,” Oz said, his face white but his voice steady. I looked down to see the entire front and side of my hoodie was dark red, and the stain was spreading quickly.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I said, the jinni in me allowing the slur because it was technically a thank-you and because he
was
being obvious.

He ignored me. “What the hell are fodden?”

“Not supposed to be here,” I said, wincing and hissing in pain as I reached to shift down to first.

“You need a hospital,” he said. But I shook my head.

“No hospitals. Computers suck,” I said, realizing I felt a bit light-headed. I only just managed to pull to the side of the road, putting the car into park as I looked over at him.

“I think maybe you’ll have to drive,” I said, marveling at how concerned my Master looked as everything went dark.

“No hospitals,” I mumbled, feeling pain as a strong arm went under my knees and another under my shoulders. My head lolled on something warm and my eyes shot open as another jolt of pain racked my body. I was staring at the corded muscles of my Master’s neck, the tips of various tattoos peeking out from the neckline of his shirt.

“You’re home,” he said. “But I need your keys.”

I shook my head—a mistake. I nearly passed out again but I managed to hang grimly on to consciousness. When I could speak again, I raised my eyes to his strong jaw, clenched with the effort of carrying my weight.

While very much in shape and very much a dancer, I was a belly dancer. Which meant I was built for comfort, not for speed.

“Just take me to the door,” I said. He climbed the few steps
up to the carriage house and I reached out a hand to touch the brass knocker. The door swung open, recognizing me, and he led me the rest of the way upstairs, stopping so I could do the same thing to our inner door.

I concentrated on bringing my hand back to my chest, rather than just letting it fall. But before cradling it to me, I allowed my traitorous fingers to touch the little anchor in Oz’s clavicle, as they’d wanted to do since I’d first seen the damned man.

He took me into the big living room to the right of the entryway, setting me down on the low couch against the wall in that room. I let myself go ahead and flop to the side, making sure it was the one without the enormous bloody cut.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” he asked.

“Kitchen,” I replied, woozily. “Under the sink.”

I shut my eyes as he left the room, only for a second but it must have been longer as when they jerked open again it was because something horrible and stinging was being pressed against the wound.

“Motherfucker,” I hissed, momentarily blinded by the light and pain. Then my eyes focused on Oz’s concerned face.

“You really need a doctor,” he said, his mouth bowed in a frown. “I can clean this out, but I can’t stitch it…”

“Just get it clean,” I said, through gritted teeth. “I can do the rest.”

Oz shrugged as if to say it was my funeral, swabbing away at the wound. I went ahead and closed my eyes again, clenching them against the pain.

“It’s still bleeding like crazy,” he said, after what felt like hours of torture but couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. “But it’s clean. Now what?”

“Now I work my mojo,” I said. “Tell me to heal myself.”

“Heal yourself, Lyla,” he said without hesitation, for once not asking a thousand questions.

At his command my Fire rose inside me, focused on my wound. Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself. If cleaning the wound had hurt, this was going to feel like pure torture. Then I reached deep…

The Node’s powerful magic responded beautifully. But it was Pittsburgh magic, which meant it was dirty as sin. I was going to feel this in the morning.

But one extreme magical hangover was better than bleeding out, so I went ahead and pulled, filtering the power even as I shifted…

Concentrating on my wound, I imagined the skin and muscle, the blood vessels and arteries, all knitting together and becoming whole—severed ends reaching for severed ends. My power bloomed, Bound-strong magical channels absorbing the shock of my magic even as they set it to work fixing me.

Ozan’s breath rasped in and out a few times as I healed, the hand he’d left resting on my hip from when he’d held me still to clean the wound squeezing me occasionally as something slithered into place, but otherwise he was quiet.

“How’s it look?” I gasped, unable to sit up and see it myself while trying to keep the magic on its short leash.

“Good,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “It’s almost healed. Just a little way to go.”

With one more push I took the wound as close to closing as I could before it was all too much. Feeling the once-familiar buzzing in the base of my neck and my spine that forewarned of imminent systems failure, I shut down my mojo, drawing back from the magic of the ley line beneath us.

I took a few deep breaths before opening my eyes, feeling the
oily tang of Pittsburgh’s magic settle into my bones. Tomorrow was going to be a bear.

When I finally did open my eyes, I reached a small hand out to my Master. He took it immediately, concern etched across his handsome features.

“Can you please call Charlie,” I asked, “and tell him I won’t be in tonight?”

“Of course,” he said. He brushed the hair from my eyes with gentle fingers. I trembled involuntarily.

“Can I do anything else?” His voice was soft. As if he was genuinely worried; as if I were something other than property.

“You can get me some water,” I said. “And some Advil. Advil’s in the bathroom cupboard.”

He nodded, and I watched him stand, walking toward the door.

“Thank you,” I muttered to the sofa, as I laid my cheek down on the rough fabric of the cushion and closed my eyes.

“Now aren’t you glad you were Bound, and had that much extra power?” I heard Oz say, from the doorframe.

I tried to give him the finger but I was too tired, and sleep soon swallowed me whole.